JULY. 



How well we loved, in Summer solitude 

 To stroll on lonely ridges far away, 

 Where beeches, with their boles of Quaker gray, 

 Murmured at times a sylvan interlude! 



We heard each songster warble near her brood, 

 And from the lowland where the mowers lay 

 Came now and then faint fragrance from the hay, 

 That touched the heart to reminiscent mood. 



We peered down wooded steeps, and saw the sun 

 Shining in front, tip all the grape-vines wild, 

 And edge with light the bowlders' lichened groups; 



While, deep within the gorge, the tinkling run 



Coiled through the hollows with its silvered loops 

 Down to the waiting River, thousand-isled. 



Lloyd Mifflin. 



ULY may properly be called the 

 month of rest among the birds. 

 With the nesting of May and June 

 over, the weary birds are enjoying 

 a well-earned rest, and the woods 

 and fields are almost silent, and 

 fewer bird notes and songs are heard and fewer 

 birds are to be seen in July than in any, except the 

 winter months. 

 It is the season of 



"* * * stare-dumb dullness * * * 

 When e'en the cocks too listless are to crow.' 



